Monday, 6 August 2007

Ask Uncle: August 2007

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the inaugural edition of Ask Uncle! Since we first advertised Uncle's services he has been inundated with cries of help from girls with eating disorders, young men with emotionally-retarded boyfriends, and lots of oldies having really bad oral sex. We've scoured this goldmine of discomfort and social awkwardness and chosen two letters which we feel best reflect the wide views of our readership. Enjoy!

Dear Uncle,

I am fond of wondrous words and winsome witticisms, and so thought you would be a good person to help me with my problem, viz.: I am addicted to 19th Century novels, and for the most part they seem to indicate that reason, fortitude, honour and all manner of calmness make for a good marriage. They all say one should control one’s passion. But, dear Uncle, I confess to liking Heathcliff a great deal. I should quite like to marry a Heathcliff. I am not fond of his tendency to dig up dead Catherines, but he seems to be the sort who wouldn’t have scruples about tearing off one’s bodice on the moors, and I rather like that. So my question is: can one marry a Heathcliff, and be happy?

Yours sincerely,

Dear Afflicted,

I once read that Bronte book, back in the War. Ripping good yarn I thought, took the mind off the rats and bombs, so a good choice for husband-obsession.

That said, it's not going to work with Heathcliff dear. Sure he's good at the bodice ripping, but who's going to sew the buttons back on later? And maybe he'll ravage you on the moors, but will he have a pack of lace tissues ready for afterwards?

I can talk about this with confidence because I am a man of passion myself; the wifey and I have a bit of slap and tickle every Wednesday before bed, even after 62 years of marriage. It was VE Day that we tied the knot, under a beautiful summer sky. We ate bananas for the first time in seven years and they tasted like heaven. Of course kids nowadays don't know how to appreciate the little things in life, least of all food. They just eat and eat and eat the fat bastards. Bloody Americans most of them too. Fat AND stupid.

So Uncle's secret to a happy marriage? Taking out the garbage. Metaphorically of course; that's the wifey's job, every Wednesday night. You need a husband who'll roger you sideways for hours so you can't walk straight and then make you a cup of tea. Who'll multitask by bending you over the kitchen bench while you prepare dinner. Forget Heathcliff and focus on Byron, Rhett and Darcy. They may have seemed like nanny-boys but I bet Darcy liked a good poke. Filthy bugger.

Dear Uncle,

If you look closely at this pic of me on holiday - I have issues. Where the fuck do I start, and where do I end?


Dear Anonymous,

We had a lad like you in our unit back in the War. Nice chap, we called him Fatty-Where's-my-Cock or just Fatty for short. Started him off in the airforce but too much ballast y'see, bad for maneouvering against the Jerries. Tried the parachuting regiment, nearly lost him there. Eventually settled in the cadets, provided great cover for our boys against machine gun fire.

Point is, everyone has a place in this world, especially if they enter it armed with a dual purpose twat-cock. Don't listen to those bastards who tell you you look like sausage skin pulled over God's scrotum, they're just jealous. You just need to find your place.

To answer your question, you must "start" by regaining your self-respect. The quickest way to do this is to get the respect of others. Send a photo of your amazing twat-cock to and they'll give you a job straight away. This is the beginning. You'll know you have reached the "end" when you can look in the mirror and see a beautiful man looking back.

Thursday, 2 August 2007

Why exercise is bad for you

OK folks, you're in for a treat because this week's entry is interactive. Push that plate of donuts aside, clench those buttocks and flex your mental biceps 'cos we're gonna get physical.

To start this blog you will need to clear a space about 3 feet by 3 feet, or a metre by a metre for the Aussie readership. Place yourself at one end of this space with your feet shoulder-width apart. See diagram A if this is all a bit much for you.

Diagram A

Next, kneel down as if you are about to receive the Holy Sacrament (diagram B).

Diagram B

Place your hands on the ground, palms down, about a foot and a half in front of your knees (45cm Aussies). You should now be 'on all fours' as if you are about to, errr, ummm, receive the Holy Sacrament (diagram C).

Diagram C

Right, this is the tricky part. You need to slide your right hand to the right by half a foot (15cm), and then do the same with your right foot. Now repeat this process with your left hand and foot but in the opposite direction, i.e. to the left. You should now be 'splayed', like Bambi trying to walk before mummy got a mouthful of lead.

Diagram D

Finally, straighten your arms and legs fully; this should cause your bum to ride up into the air at a sharp angle. Let your head hang vertically so you are looking backwards between your legs. You know you've got it right when you feel like an idiot. Hold this position for 15 seconds.

Diagram E

Now imagine you are male, 75 years of age, completely naked and holding this position in the communal showers at your local gym. Imagine also that a young male who looks a bit like, I dunno, ME!, walks in and finds you there.

Yes, I will never participate in any kind of communal gym activity again. The only saving grace is that I walked in on him from this angle...

... and not from this one.

Still, I have to throw it out there; what the fuck do you think he was doing? Cramps? Lost contact lens? Are we all destined to eventually think it is acceptable to get down on all fours, naked, in a public space?